


The Adventure of the Dancing Man

by Emelye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Time, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything that had kept them apart was strung taut between them, and John, caught in the entropy of it all, had no desire to resist Sherlock’s unconventional solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Dancing Man

John couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, could barely manage to care for his daughter. He didn’t go to work and didn’t go out if he could avoid it. He couldn’t bear to go back to their home when he left the hospital and Sherlock hadn’t seemed to mind him arriving at Baker Street with Elsie in tow. But Sherlock went on as if it were business as usual. John hated it. Hated _him_ a little bit for it. How could life simply go on? Mary was dead. That life was over. 

John spent most of his time in his room, unable and unwilling to listen to Sherlock prattle on about his experiments. They’d hardly spoken in months. He knew he wasn’t giving his newborn daughter the attention she needed either, but he was in no fit state to be anyone’s parent. He supposed Mrs. Hudson was seeing to her.

After everything they’d been through it was a bloody, goddamn aneurysm on the bed in which Mary birthed their daughter that took her from John.

He rolled over and looked at the digital display on his clock. 2:00, it blinked. Another sleepless night. His stomach gurgled and he supposed he ought to put something in it to shut it up before he tried going back to sleep. As he opened the bedroom door he heard the soft sound of his daughter crying. John felt an immediate stab of guilt. He really couldn’t afford to be so self indulgent. He took a deep breath and prepared to go to her when her crying stopped and he heard Sherlock's voice in the living room. John crept down the stairs silently, not wishing to disturb them if Sherlock was succeeding in quieting her. 

The picture he saw as he rounded the corner was of Sherlock rocking on his feet, Elsie cradled against his chest. He spoke softly to her.

“Truth is a very subjective thing, Elsie. Everyone says they want to know the truth, but the real truth is that most people are better off in ignorance. Grown ups will tell you they want you to tell them the truth, always, but they won’t mean it. They want to know if you’re happy, healthy, safe, all those things, yes, but if _they_ aren’t happy, healthy or safe, well, better to keep that to yourself. What I mean to say is, I won’t always tell your dad the truth. No, don’t try to argue with me, that’s just the way it is. 

“The truth is, I knew about your mum from the first time I laid eyes on her. The way she carried herself spoke of a repressed military bearing. The utter lack of adrenal response suggested special ops or intelligence work. There were other signs. Your mother could read and understand skip codes. You will too, one day, and other ones that are _much_ more interesting. Just wait until I show you diagrammatic cyphers. You’ll love those. Anyway what was I saying? Oh yes, your mother. Anyway, she was clearly ex-CIA. Linguist, forged identity, cool under pressure, just the sort of person you want for a mother. Your grandmummy is a mathematician, which is nice in it’s own way I suppose, but on balance, I’d prefer spy mum. So there we were, pulling your dad out of a literal fire. It was obvious she wasn’t entirely free of the specter of her past. And I loved your father, so what could I do? I lied, obviously. Plus, I’d just come back from the dead and all things considered, I thought it a bad time to give your father any more surprises. Your mum agreed so we kept it to ourselves.”

John fumed silently.

“So the wedding was nice, I suppose, if you like that kind of thing. There was an attempted murder, that was fun. Okay, I’m lying again. I was miserable and I left early to shoot up hard drugs, something you must never, ever do. I told your father it was for a case. It wasn’t. For the record, loving someone enough to let them go, doesn’t prevent it hurting to see them leave you behind.”

What? 

“I made them a promise that night: My own vow to your parents that I would be there no matter what. Admittedly, perhaps laying in an opioid daze on a soiled mattress in a flophouse might be stretching the definition of ‘there for them’ but I meant every word.” 

John snorted at that.

“Also, you should know Molly is much stronger than she looks. That is only _one_ very good reason among many to avoid a drug habit. What was I saying? Oh, I learned that Charles Augustus Magnussen, the former newspaper mogul was blackmailing your mum when I read his telegram out to the wedding guests. And furthermore, once I realized it was he who had set up the bonfire to discover the truth of my feelings for your father, he was as good as blackmailing me. I determined not to give him the satisfaction and pulled away from your parents.”

 _What_? 

“Meanwhile, I’d worked out a way to break into his office, hoping to be able to persuade him to part with your mother’s and my files. Unfortunately the plan rather backfired and in my little hiatus from your parents, your mother had decided to take matters into her own hands, as it were. She’d beaten us to his offices, knocked out the security and our friend Janine, and shot me when she learned John was downstairs. She pistol whipped Magnussen into unconsciousness, called emergency services and escaped before John could discover her. 

“Your mother was understandably reticent to share her secret with John for the same reason I was—we both feared losing him. But I was committed to their happiness, and knew that if I could just make it clear that she’d not intended harm to me, that he could forgive her anything. It took time, but eventually he did forgive her. Of course, I never did tell him her shot was far from non-fatal.”

 _That_ , John already knew, however much he’d not wanted to believe it. Just then Elsie started to whimper. He stepped outside the door to avoid being seen but Sherlock simply gave her a bottle that he must have prepared before and continued to dance her around the room. 

“Now, Elsie, don’t fuss. It’s all right now. You see, your uncle Mycroft is quite brilliant sometimes. I arranged a meeting with Magnussen while in hospital and discovered that he wasn’t keeping files on his victims at all. He had a mind palace of his very own, which is wonderful for brain work, but quite foolish for a blackmailer because he was essentially keeping all his eggs in one rather frail basket with quite a large target on it. I managed an invite to his compound with the contents of Mycroft’s laptop, then waited for him to arrive, at which time, I was able to dispose of him in full view of the British government.”

John held his breath. 

“You see, sometimes the best way to get away with a crime is not to get away with it at all. I know I said that sometimes people don’t want the truth, but when it comes to the things you do wrong, more often than not, lying about it just makes them angrier when they find out about it later. And also, I only had access to your father’s gun which would have looked quite bad for him had there not been witnesses. But Mycroft managed to find a way out of it all. He took me into custody himself, bargained for my exile, then persuaded Moriarty to come out of retirement to bargain again for my return.”

John covered his mouth to avoid any noise of surprise from escaping. 

“Elsie, I want you to know, if there was anything I could have done to have saved your mum, I would have. There was a time I thought death the most interesting thing in the world. I know your father thinks I don’t care because I don’t cry and carry on, but the truth is, she she would have done anything to keep your father safe. We understood one another perfectly in that way. And when she brought you into this world I discovered how not boring life can be. Life is sometimes miraculous. _You_ are wondrous and amazing, Elsie. And she gave you to me. Well, not _me_ precisely, but close enough.”

John wiped the tears from his face and nearly missed Sherlock saying, “John, you may as well come in off the landing.” He froze, flushed hot then stepped inside the room. Sherlock’s expression was as unaffected as ever. “I think she’s ready to go back down.”

John cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah, probably. Thanks. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled and handed John his daughter. “You’re welcome.”

He kissed her head and laid her in her cot. “I can keep the cot in my room if it’s a—”

“It’s no bother,” Sherlock assured him. 

“Good. Thank you, again. And not just for tonight. For everything.” John looked anywhere but at Sherlock as he spoke. “I know I’ve been a shit friend and father and I know Mary was selfish and I’m sorry I just—” John broke off, the tears coming again, always there at the edge, waiting for the right thought or word to send them over. “Sorry. I just can’t seem to stop this.” 

Sherlock stepped closer and John realized belatedly his best friend was hugging him, and he was powerless to stop himself sobbing into his dressing gown. Sherlock didn’t say anything about the damp silk, only held him tighter. It was absurd. They didn’t do this. _John_ didn’t do this. But in this moment, overwhelmed by grief and loneliness and disillusionment, he could take this comfort even if he knew he’d be paying for it in stilted conversations and averted eyes the next day.

Eventually the tears tapered off, the hollow empty feeling in his chest returned and he pulled away. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. 

John turned to go. “Anyway, I’ll just—”

“John,” said Sherlock, stopping him in his escape with a hand on his arm. “Would you dance with me?”

John stilled. “What?”

“Please.”

John had rarely heard that sincere note of pleading in his voice. “Now?”

Everything that had kept them apart was strung taut between them, and John, caught in the entropy of it all, had no desire to resist Sherlock’s unconventional solution.

“Please,” he repeated, his hand open.

“Yeah.” Habit acquired of endless afternoon lessons an age ago brought him into Sherlock’s space. The memory was bittersweet.

Sherlock reached for him and John felt his hand settle on the small of his back. With an almost silent count, they began to dance together, a slow waltz, the only sound their breathing in the dark and quiet. 

Sherlock’s hand was warm on his back. Heat pooled in his stomach as he felt the subtle guiding of Sherlock’s lead. Sherlock drew him closer and he could feel the subtle increase in his respiration. He knew what it meant even before Sherlock’s head bent down and he felt the first press of lips to his jaw, below his ear.

“Tell me to stop,” Sherlock whispered, desperately.

It felt good, so very good to be close to him. “No,” said John.

Sherlock placed another kiss along his cheek. Below his eye. And John reciprocated, turning to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. A creaking, shattered sound issued from Sherlock’s throat and John was lost. Frantic, closed-mouth kisses, John’s hand at the back of his neck, Sherlock’s on his arms, his waist, until their mouths met and with very little hesitation their kissing became fevered, teeth clashing, noses bumping. With silent accord, they made their way to Sherlock’s bed, stripping off their clothes as they went, and tumbled down over the covers. 

Sherlock was a hard, hot length in his hand and John was making every effort to make it good for him, not knowing if this was his first time or not. “Please,” he whispered. 

“Let me,” he said, taking John in his hand, and then in his mouth. John stifled a cry as Sherlock sucked him with incredible enthusiasm. 

John wound a hand in his soft curls. “Christ,” he whimpered. He pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him off and onto his back before he ended everything before it started. John took both their cocks in his hand, jerking them together as he held Sherlock to him and kissed up and down the length of his neck. Sherlock came without a sound. Warm semen spilled over his hand and John’s own orgasm followed quickly. He wiped his hand on the duvet but kept hold of Sherlock.

"I missed you," he said softly. 

“Christ, I'm sorry,” John whispered into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Do you always apologize after sex?” Sherlock asked, lightly.

“Only when I’ve been unintentionally hurtful and oblivious.”

“Happen often, does it?”

“The string of exes who saw this before I did would say so.”

A pause. “I _am_ sorry, John. I liked Mary.”

John sighed and tightened his arm around Sherlock. “Me too. But she wasn’t you.” A moment later, “She knew I loved you, didn’t she.”

He nodded. “Yes she did.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock voiced a frustrated growl. “Stop apologizing. I just had sex for the first time. At least let me enjoy the rush of oxytocin.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock hit John with a pillow, startling the first laugh out of him in over a month. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t feel like he’d betrayed Mary. He missed her, yeah. But in so many ways she’d never been real and he mourned the idea of her. A woman who could supplant his love for Sherlock. 

"It'll be alright," reassured Sherlock. 

"I know it'll be all right," he said, panicking.

"Stop panicking. God, is this what you did to all your girlfriends? No wonder they never lasted."

"Shut it you. Just, this is my life now. You. Me. _Gay_."

"Apparently."

"Baby."

"Yes, John, also work and food and tea and are you done having your boring identity crisis? Shagging makes me sleepy, apparently."

John laughed and sat up enough to pull the covers over them both. "Yeah, alright. Good, isn't it?" Sherlock hummed in agreement. John spooned himself behind Sherlock and waited until his breathing evened out into sleep. “I’ve missed you, too. I love you, you know. I know that now, and it’s terrifying. So you can’t ever leave me, you understand?”

Sherlock snored.

Good enough, then. Sherlock, Elsie and coming home to Baker Street. The rest, he reckoned, would sort itself in the morning.


End file.
